


Imagine: In this life, Castiel is soothed by The Saturday Evening Post … and you.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [53]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: In this life, Castiel is soothed by The Saturday Evening Post … and you.

Some nights, Castiel squanders pondering the idyllic every day normalcy captured on covers of _The Saturday Evening Post_ ; tonight - cacophony of concerns clouding his celestial mind - is one such a night. 

Restlessness roused him a handful of hours ago from the sanctity of your sheets and naked blanketing heat. Peering back to ensure he did not disturb you, he watched you roll and extend and arm sleepily into the sunken space on the mattress echoing his vacated warmth. Exhaling a distraught sound, a small frown disrupted the serenity affecting your features as a tremor of sadness afflicted your form at unconsciously discovering his absence.

Briefly, he thought to wake you to seek the reassurance and comfort you would willingly accord. Instead, not wanting to burden you with his troubles when you might delight in pleasant dreams, he tapped two fingers to your brow, plying angelic power to settle you into a deeper plane of sleep. 

Standing, tugging the trousers lifted from the floor over his muscular thighs, he shrugged into his crumple-creased dress shirt as he crept toward the golden halo of the desk lamp left on in the corner of your room. Hauling out the chair, careful not to loudly scrape the wooden legs, he chose a leafy folio from the stack in search of harmony. 

On this chosen cover sit a boy and girl side by side on a staircase; the drawn figures offer up, in their traced perpetual mute and immovable tranquility upon paper, a distraction from the nemesis of his self-doubting notions. And so he sits, scrutinizing each etch of line and color.

The scene decorating the otherwise matte age-yellowed surface unfolds both ordinary in execution and ephemeral in the suggestiveness of the boy’s smitten smile as the girl studiously scratches a pencil upon an open page of the book he lofts. 

Castiel wonders: Does the round-faced girl know how the tow-headed boy feels about her? He notes the boy’s whole body exudes absolute adoration. 

If time were not frozen, would the girl turn to acknowledge the puff of longing breath warming her ear? The angel closes his eyes at that, imagining the hints of honey sweetening the air when you speak.

Will the boy ever tear his besotted gaze away from her porcelain profile to examine what she has written while leaning across his lap to place the leaded tip to paper? The anticipation of the scene tightens the angel’s throat; it raises, too, the tiny hairs dotting the back of his neck.

These unanswered questions of the moment, the infinite potentials for the story’s end, fly from the seraph’s mind at the sudden pressure of your palm settling to his shoulder to divulge your bare-footed presence directly behind. A shuddering sigh shakes his chest at the welcome contact.

Releasing the tucked edge of the sheet wrapped around your breast, bending at the waist to bury your nose into the rumpled mass of hair crowning his head, skillful fingers slide beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt; the tips tease at the chestnut curls sweeping his nape as you inhale his scent, and yours lingering yet on him. “You should have waken me,” you admonish, forgoing the nuzzling to rest your cheek to his scalp. 

“You needed sleep.” He knows the excuse is weak and swallows the syllables as he states it.

“Hmm.” Unconvinced, you pretend to consider the merits of the stance solely for his benefit. Shifting position to straighten, the pads of your fingers splaying over the sensitive expanse of his neck, you squeeze at the tenseness knotting the spot. “And _you_ needed _me_ ,” you argue, a smirk blooming to banish any remaining vestiges of sleep from your eyes.

Eyelids fluttering, lashes shading his blues from all but the sensation of your kneading caress, he surrenders to the massage and admonition; a growl of contentment vibrates his vessel. He never notices the stress he carries there - the locked rigidity seizing the mass of muscle and incorporeally folded wings - until you seek out and sooth it - and _him_ \- gently into submission.

“Always,” he admits. Assenting to the feeling of peace pervading every atom of his being, he says it again because once doesn’t seem enough to encompass the emotion of love he feels in your presence and the sense of comfort and belonging he needs and receives from you unasked. “ _Always._ ” 

“Then come back to bed, angel.” No insinuation of slumber sounds in a tone that jellies his bones, quickens his vessel’s heart, and excites his grace to its divine foundations.

Reaching up, he lays a broad hand across your wrist; fingers circle firmly around the lithe extension of limb to still your movement. Drawing the captured fount of happiness fondly to his lips, he tenders a kiss to the erogenously innervated cushion at the base of your thumb and mouths wordless affection wetly along the inside of your wrist upward to the crook of your elbow until his insistent tug unbalances you. 

Stumbling round between him and the desk, the sheet shrouding you slackens and slips to the floor. A giddy giggle galvanizes your flushing frame as you fall - shivering from more than the room’s coolness - into his lap and hide a grin in the gaping fabric of his shirt; the light of your laughter thrills the intimate atmosphere, and more so the seraph.

Hooking a thumb to your chin, he compels your gaze to meet his; blue irises sheen with gratitude and pupils blacken with unbridled fondness as they flick to your parted lips. Slotting his mouth to yours, he reflexively smiles against the pulse and network of nerves latticed below the melt of lips sparking with arousal.

This life may not always - or, _ever_ \- be picture perfect. It’s no eternal sunny afternoon sat lingering on the stoop with your sweetheart sharing sweet nothings. This life is messy, dangerous, heart-breaking, and often impossible. This life is what you make it, and Castiel wouldn’t trade it, or _you_ , for anything in Creation.


End file.
